The day of the auction had come.

  From dawn, crowds pressed against the grand doors of the Eternal Treasure Pavilion—merchants in silk, warriors in plain robes, veiled ladies borne in litters, all drawn by whispers of rare wonders.

  Han Sen stood among them, alone.

  Yan Lok was gone—likely already south with Master Liu Cao and the Huang San expedition.

  Hunting monsters.

  Success uncertain.

  A faint, bitter smile touched Han Sen’s lips.

  Ten days in Chang’an.

  Palace walls breached in disguise.

  Threads gathered.

  Yet no closer to his mother.

  Some things could not be forced.

  He entered the hall as doors opened—flowing with the tide into the vast chamber.

  Tiered seats rose around a central dais.

  Lanterns of colored glass cast warm light upon velvet curtains.

  The air hummed with anticipation.

  Han Sen found a quiet corner near the rear—unnoticed, unremarkable.

  He carried little coin.

  No intent to buy.

  Only to see what his Obsidian Sphere would fetch.

  The auction began.

  Items rose one by one upon silk cushions.

  Swords that sang with inner qi.

  Stones pulsing faint light.

  Elixirs sealed in jade bottles.

  Gems that shifted color with breath.

  Bids climbed—voices sharp, hands raised.

  Han Sen watched in silence.

  His sphere waited until the end.

  When it was brought forth—placed upon black velvet, announced in clear tones—the hall stirred.

  “A Soul-Binding Obsidian Sphere.

  One second life—for the bearer who claims a fallen soul.”

  Gasps rippled.

  Messengers slipped away—hurrying to wealthy masters with urgent word.

  Bidding opened at five taels of gold.

  Then rose like fire catching dry grass.

  Six.

  Eight.

  Eleven.

  Twenty-four.

  Thirty-five.

  Forty-one.

  Fifty.

  Seventy-five.

  Silence fell.

  Then—from a curtained loft box, voice muffled but commanding:

  “Ninety-eight.”

  Another pause.

  “One hundred and five.”

  No further bid.

  The gavel fell three times.

  Tok. Tok. Tok.

  Sold.

  The crowd dispersed slowly—murmurs of wonder, envy, calculation.

  Han Sen waited in shadow.

  Then slipped to the rear offices.

  The manager greeted him—face alight, bow deep.

  “One hundred and five taels, less four percent commission—one hundred taels even, young master.”

  He presented the gold bars heavy, gleaming.

  Han Sen accepted without comment.

  Four percent of one hundred five was four taels and two hundred coppers.

  Not five full taels.

  But the sphere had been freely taken from a beast’s lair.

  One hundred taels remained fortune beyond his former dreams.

  He swept the gold into his small enchanted pouch.

  The manager watched—eyes flickering with curiosity, yet asking nothing.

  A wise man knew better than to question another’s treasures.

  Especially one whose strength remained unknown.

  “Master Han Sen,” he said with deference, “return anytime you acquire further wonders. The Pavilion doors stand open.”

  Han Sen bowed.

  “Thank you.”

  He left.

  Gold heavy at his waist.

  Han Sen stepped from the auction house into the spring afternoon sunlight, the weight of one hundred gold taels settled quietly in his pouch.

  At first, he felt nothing.

  Only the familiar rhythm of Chang’an’s streets—carts creaking, vendors calling, distant temple bells.

  Then it struck.

  A sudden surge rose within—warm, bright, almost childish.

  A hundred taels of gold.

  Enough to buy a fine house in any province.

  Enough to feed a village for years.

  Enough to hire a dozen informants, bribe a score of guards, open doors long closed.

  Joy threatened to spill over.

  He wanted to leap.

  To laugh aloud.

  To spin once in the street like a boy with his first coin.

  He almost could not contain it.

  Only a quiet smile curved his lips—small, private, unstoppable.

  Who could resist smiling at such fortune?

  Yet caution followed swift as shadow.

  Eyes in Chang’an were many.

  Hands quicker still.

  A youth with sudden wealth drew wolves.

  He walked steadily, senses sharp—watching reflections in shop windows, noting lingering glances, feeling the city’s pulse for any beat out of rhythm.

  Safe, for now.

  His gaze drifted to a knot of ragged children darting through dust and grime.

  Bare feet toughened by stone.

  Clothes little more than patches.

  Faces smudged, yet eyes bright with play.

  He remembered.

  Once he had run barefoot too—Baihe Plain, his mother’s hand would wash him clean.

  These children—where were their mothers?

  Fathers lost to war, beasts, hunger?

  The smile faded.

  Siu Chen—still hidden somewhere.

  A hundred taels could buy silk, horses, blades.

  But information? Where could he bought it?

  That coin was rarer.

  He turned toward the Imperial Treasury—a squat, imposing building of gray stone, banners limp in still air.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Guards at the gate.

  He entered.

  Produced one gold tael.

  “Exchange for silver.”

  The official behind the counter—robes stiff, face bland—examined the bar.

  “One tael of gold equals fifteen silver,” he intoned. “Treasury fee—one silver tael. You receive fourteen.”

  Han Sen’s brow lifted.

  Fourteen?

  A steep cut.

  He shrugged inwardly.

  Gold drew eyes; silver passed unnoticed.

  He accepted the heavy ingots—fourteen cool bars sliding into his pouch.

  Only later would he learn the treasury’s quiet theft: of the fee, perhaps only five coppers reached the Emperor’s coffers.

  The rest warmed officials’ palms.

  Black-market exchanges offered better rates.

  But Han Sen knew no such paths.

  Not yet.

  He left the treasury lighter in gold, heavier in silver.

  The city’s lessons came daily.

  Not far from the treasury, in a quieter side street, Han Sen paused.

  A small group worked in the shade of a crumbling wall—three women and two men, folding and handing out garments to street children.

  Moments before, the children had scattered like startled sparrows—bare feet slapping dust, laughter sharp.

  Now they formed an orderly line, faces solemn, receiving clothes that covered them decently.

  Not fine silk.

  Not embroidered splendor.

  Simple cotton tunics, patched but clean—warm enough for spring nights, sturdy enough to last.

  Behind the group stood a large wooden crate, still half-full.

  Han Sen watched, motionless.

  Such quiet kindness—he had seldom seen it given freely, without expectation.

  “Brother,” a voice said beside him, “would you lend a hand?”

  Han Sen turned.

  A young man, his own age—foreign features softened by Han clothing, eyes bright with gentle purpose.

  He spoke flawless Chinese.

  Han Sen found his voice.

  “This… is Ren made visible. A virtue rare in these days.”

  The stranger smiled.

  “Ren, Li, Yi—yes. Compassion, propriety, righteousness.”

  Han Sen nodded slowly.

  “Ren—to love others as oneself.

  Li—to know place and act with respect.

  Yi—to choose the hard right over easy wrong.

  Zhi—wisdom to discern.

  Xin—trust kept in word and deed.”

  The young man’s eyes warmed.

  “Well spoken. I am called Adam, but here they name me Jingjing.”

  “I am Han Sen,” he replied, bowing. “Your name—Adam—from where?”

  “My father and I come from Balkh—far west, beyond the deserts.”

  Han Sen’s brow lifted.

  “So far… to clothe children in Chang’an?”

  Jingjing’s smile deepened.

  “Distance matters little when the call is clear. We aid where we can—and share a message.”

  “What message?”

  Jingjing glanced toward a modest building across the lane—plain wood, small gate.

  “My father explains better. Come—tea waits, and the hour is kind.”

  Han Sen hesitated only a breath.

  The afternoon held no urgency.

  He followed.

  The building’s front bore a simple plaque: Jingjiao – Luminous Religion.

  A name he had never heard.

  Curiosity drew him through the gate.

  Inside was spare—wooden benches, whitewashed walls, faint scent of oil lamps.

  Upon one wall hung crossed beams—horizontal upon vertical, plain olive wood.

  Han Sen’s gaze lingered.

  Jingjing noticed.

  “That is a cross.”

  “A cross?”

  “Yes. Wait—my father comes.”

  A tall man approached—bearded, robed in dark cloth with a purple sash, eyes carrying both kindness and the weight of long roads.

  He greeted Han Sen with palms pressed together.

  “Peace be with you, friend.”

  Han Sen returned the gesture.

  “And with you.”

  Jingjing smiled.

  “Father—this is Han Sen.”

  The priest—Yisi—nodded warmly.

  “Welcome to our small house of light.”

  Tea was poured. Simple. Hot.

  Conversation began.

  The small chamber was quiet save for the soft crackle of the brazier and the distant murmur of Chang’an’s evening streets.

  Priest Yisi sat opposite Han Sen, hands folded, eyes steady yet carrying the weight of distant visions.

  “Our world is shrouded in darkness,” he said at last, voice low, resonant. “And that darkness grows—a threat of immense scale.”

  Han Sen leaned forward, surprise flickering across his face.

  “Forgive me, venerable one. Do you speak of the peril from Tubo?”

  Yisi shook his head slowly.

  “There is peril from the west, yes. But I speak of something far greater. To the south.”

  “The beasts of the south?” Han Sen asked. “They can be overcome.”

  “Not beasts,” Yisi replied, gaze turning inward, as though seeing beyond the walls. “They are, in truth, a boon to humankind. A blessing.”

  Han Sen stilled, confusion deepening.

  “A boon?”

  “Child,” Yisi said gently, “is it not through conquering those creatures that men have gained treasures? Grown stronger? Has the martial way not flourished because of them? They are a source of fortune—sharp, painful, yet yielding growth.”

  Han Sen fell silent.

  He thought of the golden orb, the crimson silver stone, the shadowed dagger—all taken from monster lairs.

  Power earned through blood and risk.

  A hundred taels of gold from one sphere alone.

  Strength for the realm.

  For himself.

  “Yes,” he admitted at last. “Such a perspective… is possible.”

  Yisi nodded.

  “Yet the true threat offers no such benefit—only destruction.”

  Han Sen’s unease grew.

  “Why do you share this with me?”

  The priest’s eyes met his—clear, unflinching.

  “Because the Heavens have foretold your coming.”

  Han Sen’s breath caught.

  “The Heavens? A foretelling?”

  To him, Heaven rarely touched mortal affairs—distant, impartial regulator.

  Yisi leaned closer.

  “Young Han Sen, tell me—do you believe in a God?”

  Han Sen hesitated.

  “Do you mean Thian—Heaven itself?”

  “No.” Yisi’s voice softened. “I speak of God—the Creator. Not Thian the Regulator, the Lord above all lords.”

  Han Sen blinked, struggling.

  “I… do not understand the distinction.”

  “God is the architect of existence,” Yisi said. “The one who brought all from nothingness. Before God, there was a void. Through Him all things were made; without Him, nothing was made that has been made.

  Shangdi governs the natural order—Upper Realm, Middle Realm of men, Lower Realm. Harmony lies in unity with that order, adherence to its laws.

  But God possesses power to unmake—to erase.

  The cosmos, Shangdi, endures eternally. It cannot destroy itself.

  God can.”

  Han Sen’s mind turned to his master’s teachings—the Three Pure Ones.

  “Yuanshi Tianzun,” he said slowly, “is the Grand Creator. First to perceive the Dao, first to order heaven and earth, first to birth living beings. Origin of all.

  Like a painter filling a blank canvas with a masterpiece.”

  He met Yisi’s gaze.

  “Is God then Yuanshi Tianzun—the painter?”

  Yisi shook his head gently.

  “No. If Yuanshi Tianzun painted the universe, understand—he did not create the canvas. If he first comprehended the Dao, he did not forge the Dao itself.

  God is the creator of the path.

  He is the path, the truth, and the life.”

  The small chamber grew still, lamplight flickering soft across the crossed wood upon the wall.

  Han Sen sat opposite Priest Yisi, tea cooling untouched between them.

  At last he spoke, voice low, carrying the weight of questions long carried.

  “If God truly created all, and all things are ordained by His will… then why does wickedness exist in this world? Did the benevolent power that brought forth creation also fashion evil?”

  The words hung heavy.

  He had pondered this since childhood—why Shangdi, ruler of heaven and earth, permitted darkness to flourish.

  His master Lou Siat had taught: what men call evil is only the shadow of the Dao.

  Balance eternal.

  Birth and death.

  Virtue and vice.

  Yin and Yang.

  One cannot exist without the other.

  Yisi met his gaze—steady, compassionate.

  “No,” he said quietly. “God does not create evil. God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all.”

  Han Sen’s brow furrowed.

  “But surely it is a matter of Yin and Yang?”

  Yisi leaned forward, voice gentle yet firm.

  “Young one, when you strive for truth and justice, do you not, in that striving, create space for wickedness? Does the teaching of Ren, Yi, and Li permit corruption?”

  Han Sen considered.

  “No, Master. The ideal is to embody truth perfectly.”

  “Then where lies the Yin and Yang? Where is the balance between black and white?”

  Han Sen paused.

  “Men err. Even with purest intent, transgression finds a way.”

  “So if one errs, should that error remain uncorrected?”

  Han Sen repeated the priest’s earlier words, testing them.

  “God does not create evil.”

  “God does not create evil.”

  “Then why does it exist?”

  Yisi’s eyes softened.

  “Evil is the absence of truth. Darkness is the absence of light. Were there no God, there would be only evil—only darkness.”

  Han Sen’s breath slowed.

  “Why is God… absent?”

  “Because all humankind has fallen into sin. For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”

  Han Sen challenged, quiet defiance in his voice.

  “Surely God could act?”

  “Yes,” Yisi answered. “As I have said—the One who creates can also unmake. When the world is steeped in sin, from God’s view it is fit only for annihilation.”

  “Annihilation?” Han Sen murmured. “Yet we remain.”

  “That is because God holds another facet beyond truth—compassion, mercy.

  For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

  Han Sen’s gaze drifted to the carved cross upon the wall.

  “What is meant by this? Who is this only Son? How is He bestowed?”

  Yisi followed his eyes.

  “Far to the west, in a city called Jerusalem, there lived a man who knew no sin, without fault.

  He was put to death, nailed upon a cross such as that.”

  Han Sen studied the simple wood, horizontal upon vertical.

  “He is the Son of God, descended into the form of man. He died upon the cross to bear the burden of humanity’s death—to atone for their sins.

  Those who believe in Him shall not perish.”

  “What is meant by ‘perish’?” Han Sen asked. “Is that not what all face, save those who attain immortality?”

  “All shall meet an end,” Yisi replied. “In the judgment of God, where every soul answers for its deeds.

  Even one who achieves immortality merely prolongs existence.

  Yet even they shall have an end before God.”

  Han Sen pressed on, yearning clear in his voice.

  “So wickedness persists in this world?”

  “This world is severed from God,” Yisi said. “Thus wickedness exists.

  But God does not swiftly destroy it—for there remain souls to be saved, souls who would believe in Jesus.

  As long as there are those who will turn to faith, God tolerates the world’s wickedness.”

  He paused, eyes gentle yet piercing.

  “Do not misunderstand, Han Sen.

  If you find wickedness abhorrent, the Creator loathes it even more.

  But as long as men can believe in Jesus, there remains hope that they will not perish, but live.”

  Silence settled.

  Han Sen’s gaze settled upon the priest, searching for certainty in the calm eyes before him.

  “Then am I not always acting with virtue?”

  Yisi regarded him with gentle steadiness.

  “Indeed, young Han Sen—in your own eyes, for yourself, you act with virtue.”

  “Therefore, I am not wicked, am I?”

  The priest’s voice remained quiet, yet carried the weight of ancient truth.

  “When you declare yourself righteous or depraved, what dictates it beyond your own self?

  When men speak of Ren, Yi, Li—what determines these virtues beyond the Emperor’s decree, your parents’ teachings, and your own judgment?

  For you, you are righteous.

  But in the eyes of God, you remain wanting.

  For when you define goodness and wickedness yourself, you transgress the divine ordinance—that only God determines.”

  He paused, letting the words breathe.

  “Yet mankind desires to be like God. That is the original sin.”

  Han Sen felt the echo deep within.

  “Indeed… mankind strives for virtue akin to God, and then fashions its own definitions of good and evil.”

  “Sin is not merely in the act of wrongdoing,” Yisi continued softly, “but in proclaiming oneself the arbiter of what is right and wrong.”

  Han Sen fell silent.

  He had always followed virtue—truth, justice, protection of the weak.

  Yet those virtues he had shaped with his own hand.

  If an emperor’s command felt wrong, he judged it so.

  If a teaching clashed with his heart, he set it aside.

  He had honored his mother, his master Lou Siat.

  But ultimately, he had chosen what to accept.

  Never once yielding final judgment to Heaven.

  To God.

  Only to his own discernment.

  “So, to be severed from God…” he began, understanding dawning like faint light through cloud, “it means…”

  “Yes,” Yisi answered. “To be severed from God is to no longer perceive God’s will regarding what is righteous and what is not.

  You act for your own desires, or the desires of the many—but not for the will of God.

  Therefore, you remain in sin—severed, bereft of God’s grace.”

  Han Sen’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Yet God is merciful… even before understanding or repentance?”

  Yisi nodded.

  “And now, you possess strength and gifts.

  This is what God proclaims.

  While the darkness lies far to the south—a great and terrible force that threatens this world, a world that knows no God.”

  The chamber remained wrapped in quiet, the oil lamps burning steadily, casting gentle shadows upon the simple cross.

  Han Sen sat motionless, the priest’s words still echoing within him—vast, unsettling, yet carrying a strange resonance.

  Yisi watched him with patient kindness.

  “Indeed, young Han Sen,” he said softly, “indeed, it requires time and contemplation to digest such a profound truth. It is not possible to grasp the depth of this great truth within a single, fleeting discourse.”

  Han Sen bowed his head, gratitude and humility mingling.

  “I am grateful, venerable sir, for your patience with my bewilderment.”

  Yisi’s smile was gentle.

  “Yes. For now, understand this.

  God decrees that you overcome the wickedness that plagues the south.

  Or this entire kingdom shall perish.

  But that can only be achieved if you acknowledge this as the will of God—and willingly embrace it in His service.

  For without God, you cannot prevail.”

  The words settled heavily.

  Not command.

  Not a threat.

  But revelation.

  Han Sen felt the weight of them—of a purpose larger than his own search, larger than palace shadows or eunuch schemes.

  A darkness in the south—greater than beasts.

  Threatening all.

  And he—somehow chosen.

  Or called.

  He rose slowly.

  Bowed deeply.

  “I will contemplate your words, venerable sir.

  And… thank you.”

  Yisi placed a hand upon his shoulder—light, blessing.

  “Go with peace, Han Sen.

  The light is with you, even in darkness.”

  Han Sen stepped into the night.

  Chang’an’s vast streets stretched before him—lamps flickering, distant music from wine houses, the endless hum of ten thousand lives.

  Yet within him, new questions stirred.

  Old truths examined anew.

  The dragon walked beneath spring stars.

  Carrying a wider heaven in his heart.

  While far to the south, unseen, the greater darkness waited.

  And time—precious, fleeting—slipped onward.

  The path narrowed.

  The choice approached.

  Not of blade alone.

  But of light.